


Unraveled

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [17]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kidnapping/Torture (implied), Psychological Distress, downward spirals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the worst among us have something "good" about them.  What, then, is left when that one "good" thing is taken away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unraveled

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the Ogre saga (episodes 19 through 21). Very graphic depictions of violence in this one; pleased be advised accordingly.

He often wonders if his parents ever hoped he would find someone to love. He’s sure they did. At the very least, his mother must have. Every mother hopes her son will find love, that he will find happiness and delight in giving his heart to another.

He’s not completely sure about finding happiness and delight. He isn’t sure what he feels. He does know he feels too much. Fairytales and the media glamorize this sensation, almost disgustingly so. In the world of fantasy, everything seems beautiful, rose-tinted; suddenly all the dark and ugly things of life fade away and there’s only joy and cheer and wonder left to behold. The heart is light, all the burdens lifted away by falling in love. Everything is perfect. Everything is absolutely perfect, in the world of fantasy.

He doesn’t live in a world of fantasy. He lives in a world of notoriety and infamy, the world of nightmares and horror, of darkness and shadows, and there is no dose of fantasy and no pair of rose-colored glasses that will change anything about his world. His heart isn’t light as a feather or otherwise weightless in his chest; if anything, it feels heavier, like a mass of lead suspended below his ribcage. His eyes do see things differently, but not in such a way that ugliness is suddenly beauty and he suddenly regards those around him with tenderness and a gentle heart. His world has abruptly become bright, a cold burst of blinding light that doesn’t exist to anyone but him. He goes throughout his day with a renewed wall of icy indifference and callous brutality, because every waking thought is stolen by one single declaration, a ceaseless echo in his ears, a constant image flashing before his inner eye: _I love her. I love her._

The change certainly doesn’t go unnoticed, but some people have manners about it and others don’t. Don Falcone is the first to notice, when an inquiry is met with barely a blink and a highly indifferent response—more so than usual—and while the elder’s eyebrows lift a bit, he says nothing and carries on the conversation as though nothing is amiss. He suspects, regrettably, Don Falcone does know. Even without a word on the matter spoken between them, or a betraying comment, or a slip of the tongue, he truly believes Falcone knows. He wonders how long it will be before the issue is addressed, and what consequences there will be for such an egregious failure.

Others in the family notice, but not with the same understanding as Don Falcone. Most of them, as he overhears in whispered gossip, believe he’s having some kind of unlucky streak—which is absolutely absurd; he hasn’t gambled in years, and there is no _unlucky streak_ in his line of work, not when there is only one end game—or maybe Don Falcone has him back on a leash, which is equally ridiculous. After the third day of gossip, he decides to send a message, that he is _not_ having any kind of misfortune and there are no more confines on him or his work. The remains of two lieutenants, both missing their tongues, gets the message across quite well. Don Falcone says nothing.

Butch, strangely enough, also seems quite perceptive. He’s also smart enough to stay silent. He greets Victor with perfect manners and a respectful bow of the head, whenever a trip to Penguin’s club is required, but there is a moment when their eyes happen to meet—and it is a very short moment—and he can see something flicker in the large man’s eyes that hints to understanding. But nothing more is said on the matter; Butch has been taught better.

Penguin is the greater problem. He has all the answers, naturally, and can’t wait to provide Victor with his profound wisdom. He’s also lacking previous subtlety; anyone with half a brain and an ear to the ground knows the storm Penguin is brewing, and the absolute glee he has, anticipating what is to come, is written across his face and dancing in his gaze. He’s also overly sympathetic to what he considers Victor’s plight, and is only too eager to comfort a friend. He seems to have missed the message that Victor doesn’t have friends, he doesn’t make friends, and he doesn’t want friends.

“You don’t have to suffer in silence, my friend.” Penguin tells him, while sipping a glass of sherry at the bar and watching Victor clean his gun at the nearest table. “I quite understand. It’s something we have in common.”

There is nothing they have in common, especially where this is concerned. Penguin may be enamored with Jim Gordon—for reasons which Victor cannot and has no interest in comprehending—but he knows nothing of _this_. Penguin knows nothing of having every thought, every moment of every day, every fiber in the body and every inch of skin and every drop of blood be completely, wholly, utterly consumed by one single thought, by three words that constantly churn at the back of the throat like acid, demanding to be spoken, demanding to be set free, demanding to be _real_. Penguin knows nothing of the desire to be near her, only her; to mold flesh against flesh, to dissolve away and become part of her, body and mind and soul; to live with her and die with her. Penguin knows nothing of, against all concept of pride and self-respect, being owned in body, mind, and soul; that he would kill for her, live for her, die for her; that he is her slave because he loves her. Penguin knows nothing of this. _Nothing._

Victor’s icy silence is taken, apparently, interpreted as an invitation to keep talking, because that’s exactly what Penguin does. “I understand how it feels to be…restrained. To be kept below your true potential. It’s simply suffocating, and it’s cruel. You don’t have to put up with it, Victor.”

His fingers twitch; the gun doesn’t slip out of his hands, but only because he’s finished with it and set it carefully back on the table with forced composure. Penguin misses the way his hands curl inward, clenching violently, straining the leather of his gloves; most intelligent people know this is an indication of agitation, and to stop talking. Penguin doesn’t. Maybe he’s trying to push Victor one way or another, learn what buttons can be pushed and how hard and how often. If the little bird has any sense of self-preservation, he’ll shut up and walk away.

“Being under Don Falcone’s thumb has grown…intolerable.” Penguin says, almost crooning at him. “I can only imagine what it’s like for you, my friend. He still has you on a leash.” _No, he doesn’t._ “And you can’t just be what you are.” _You have **no** idea who and what I am._ “But I would never keep you restrained. I would let you go. I would set you free.”

The violent urges that take him are disorienting, dizzying, and he almost feels sick under the sudden weight. It doesn’t take a genius to understand what Penguin is offering, the implications he’s making, and while it’s certainly not surprising—he is actually a little surprised it took Penguin this long to just come out and say it—the timing couldn’t be worse. Victor is on a knife’s edge, and his gun is within easy reach, and the image of Penguin lying dead at his feet, face half-dismantled by a bullet, or maybe with a knife, or both, is flashing before his eyes like a crimson strobe light…

He forcefully pushes himself out of the chair, returning the gun to his belt, and taking three very deep, very deliberate breaths to steady the tight churning in his stomach. “I have to go.” He says; it’s not necessary for him to make excuses to Penguin, and in all honesty, it wasn’t even for Penguin. It was for him, a spoken reminder that he needs to leave, right now, before he completely loses it.

Penguin looks very put-out, but not completely dissuaded. “Just keep it in mind, my friend.” He says, with that damned look of empathetic pity on his face; Victor wants to rip it off with his bare hands. “I would treat you right.”

His exit is far hastier than his usual casual gait, and when he finally gets outside and the frigid air of Gotham winter strikes him in the face, it’s welcomed with open arms and he drinks it down into his lungs. Anything to pull his thoughts back together, to keep his control on the rapidly-fraying leash just for a moment more. He just needs to walk a few blocks, avoid human interaction as much as possible, and find Iris. That’s it. That, ultimately, is what’s wrong. He hasn’t seen her in days—days which seem like years, to a mind consumed with visions, of her eyes and her smile, that need to be revived and renewed—and he just needs to see her, right now. That’s all he needs to do, and everything will be fine. He’ll find Iris, she’ll settle his nerves and calm his thoughts, and he’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

He makes it halfway, and the inevitable happens. In his attempt to avoid human contact, he takes the longer route through an area infamous for its ladies of the evening. At this hour—not even five o’clock—he’s thought it would be safe, but there are a few girls already out, hoping for an early start. It’s easy enough to avoid them, because if he doesn’t make eye contact, they don’t do much. They don’t have time to waste on disinterested parties.

Except for one. A petite little thing, with black hair and pale skin; she looks too much like Iris, though not as beautiful. There is no beauty to her white skin and dark strands and rose-tinged cheeks; there is no life in her eyes. She looks like a hollow and pale reflection of true beauty.

She tries to catch his attention well before he even crosses her path; it’s the first rule of hunting, to never approach your prey in advance, when they can see you coming. It’s also the first rule of survival, that you never approach anything or anyone without reading body language. You don’t approach a snarling dog, trapped in a corner, and you don’t walk straight up to a man who’s obviously in a hurry and deliberately block his path. And you don’t, absolutely _do not_ , touch him. Ever.

But she does. And this is the beginning of the end, he knows. There is no satisfaction, no thrill, nothing gained from her death. He doesn’t even really register what he’s done until he feels blood cast across his cheek and realizes she has stopped trying to fight him. It’s difficult to fight someone off with a slit throat. Slit nearly to the point of decapitation.

He leaves her in the alley and keeps walking. No one seems to notice.

***

From the moment he approaches the apartment door, he knows something is very wrong. There are no sounds from within, and no light peeking out from under the door. That’s not right. Iris doesn’t leave the apartment to just go wandering throughout the city. When she’s not with him, she’s here. Perhaps she’s simply resting.

The apartment is very dark; it’s almost as though no one has been here in days. Where Gordon could possibly be, he has no idea. It’s just…dark. Lifeless. If he didn’t know any better, he might think—

A soft crash from the loft cuts into his thoughts and brings his hand to the gun, withdrawing it and holding it tight, ready to fire at anyone or anything. The stairs accommodate his need to be silent, slowly ascending with fingers at the trigger and eyes making out any possible shapes in the darkness. He can hear sounds from around the corner, near the bathroom, and then footsteps. It’s not Iris; these steps belong to a man, heavy and awkward, not her light and elegant movements. He pauses at the rail, eyes watching, waiting, ears listening as the steps come closer and closer and…

Edward Nygma certainly hasn’t changed in the months passed, since Victor was granted the opportunity to be at Iris’ side in the medical examiner’s office and thus shared space with both her and Nymga. He does, however, nearly suffer a heart attack at the man suddenly visible when he flicks on the desk lamp and the gun aimed at his head. He drops the set of lock picks he was holding when both hands shoot up into the air and he immediately freezes in place, choking on each breath and shaking like a mouse cornered by a cat.

Victor won’t pretend he’s not a little irritated, both at Nygma’s intruding presence and the fact that he’s going through Iris’ room like he belongs here, but irritation quickly fades as his mind makes quick calculations. “Where is she?” he asks, not yet lowering the gun, because he hasn’t decided if he is or isn’t going to shoot this man, if for nothing else than getting on his nerves.

Nygma has to swallow twice, then a third time, before he can even speak coherently. “I…I don’t know.” He says, voice shaking as badly as his hands. “T-that’s why I was here. You…you haven’t seen her?”

Something is very, very wrong. “ _Where_ is she?” he repeats; the question means nothing, when it’s clear Nygma truly doesn’t know and that’s the only reason he would be breaking and entering, but he doesn’t have anything else to say, not while his mind is trying to make sense of this.

The other man looks confused, and frightened, and probably still disturbed by the gun pointed between his eyes. “I told you, I don’t know. No one has seen her for days. I mean, they aren’t necessarily looking…no one has ever really appreciated her. They barely notice she’s gone, and—”

“ _Stop_.” Victor growls, and Nygma does indeed stop talking, mouth snapping shut mid-sentence, eyes wide behind his glasses, waiting with terrified anticipation for what is going to happen now. After a moment’s consideration, he finally lowers the gun and puts it back in the holster. “Stop rambling and get to the point.”

Nygma swallows again, looking somewhat relieved at the gun’s absence, and follows the command without further pause. The case Gordon called about, days earlier, was regarding a serial killer—yet another one, also with a penchant for abducting and murdering young women with plenty of mutilation and otherwise unsavory details…why do people find it necessary to copy one another like this?—and he’d needed Iris’ assistance. When she failed to meet him, that day, a rather dreadful argument had ensued between them, at the precinct. To say they hadn’t parted on good terms that day, according to Nygma, would be an understatement.

“What were they arguing about?” Victor asks, for curiosity’s sake.

Nygma looks very uncomfortable, but finally answers. “You.”

He doesn’t need to say anything beyond that. Victor can guess, only too well, just what was said, by both parties, and how the dispute might have ended. But it’s rather irrelevant, because it doesn’t explain why Iris isn’t where she’s supposed to be, and why her former co-worker is looking for her, with great distress.

“The individual we’re looking for,” Nygma explains, “has evaded capture because he threatens the loved ones of any investigating officers. If threats don’t work, murder usually does. Detective Gordon has continued the hunt, despite the threats; Dr. Thompkins is quite safe, and I’m afraid Detective Gordon hasn’t quite grasped the distinct possibility that…well…” he swallows tightly, wringing his hands with notable discomfort, “Dr. Thompkins wasn’t the only _loved one_ he should have considered.”

It hits like a bullet to the gut, twice over. The words he’s hearing, the unsubtle implications, the fact he hasn’t seen Iris in days…and how many has it been? Three? Five? Has it been a full week? How and why did he lose track of time so easily?

“What does he do to them?” he hears a voice that vaguely resembles his own, asking a question he already knows won’t have an answer, but it sounds slurred and distorted to his ears. The only thing he can hear distinctly, above all else, is the blood rushing like a violent storm through every vein in his body.

Nygma blinks, three times, and then makes a meek comment about not hearing right, and asking for clarification. He heard the question just fine, and he doesn’t need clarification, but he asks for it anyway and Victor is short on time and patience. The biting glare and locked-jaw response he gives expresses as much.

“What does he do to them?” he repeats, fingers curling deliberately around his gun for emphatic purposes. “Tell me what he does. And if you can’t tell me, _show_ me.”

***

Nygma doesn’t have the stomach to give the full details, or maybe he’s just terrified of saying the wrong thing in the wrong way and earning a bullet to the head. He says he’ll get Victor what he needs within the next two days. That’s two days too long, but the only other option is to go with him, back to the precinct, and spend a few hours there, and his phone started ringing as soon as he left the apartment. There’s work for him to do. He welcomes it. Perhaps it will be the distraction he needs.

It isn’t. His mind is lost in what if scenarios, running through all manner of possibilities—some of which he himself has engaged in, though with more relish than he’s currently feeling. It’s a cold, bitter medicine to swallow, to know he could so easily and with great satisfaction dissect and destroy, mutilate and massacre, and store those memories away like one recalls a happy childhood; yet, those same images play across his mind’s eye, this time with Iris’ face, skin cold and blue eyes empty, body ruined, and he has to take a minute to pull it together. This is irony at its finest, and consequently, its cruelest. It makes him desire for _Irony_ to be a living, breathing being, just so he can annihilate it.

On the second day, he returns home to find a manila envelope under his door, with very small and very cramped handwriting offering a simple message: _Find her_. He has no idea how Nygma found his address and can’t bring himself to care. He rips the envelope open, tosses it aside, and quickly delves headfirst into the provided photographs, autopsy results, and every other piece of documentation provided on this man— _the Ogre_ ; somehow it seems an incredibly fitting title. He pours over every detail, hour after hour after hour, as though they contain the answer to life itself. In a twisted way, he supposes they do.

He doesn’t sleep that night, or the next, or the one after that, or the one after that. For the first time since his younger years, he has nightmares. Never anything concrete, nothing that could be relayed and discussed with a confidant, never with any great detail he can remember, but each one flashes a vibrant image of black hair, matted and ruined with blood, and blue eyes staring up, empty, devoid of life, and the cold realization that those eyes are accusing him without words, showcasing his failure, the promises broken. And then he wakes up. Twice, it’s with a violent bout of nausea, and it’s only by sheer will-power that he doesn’t become physically ill.

If his changed demeanor was showing previously, the heavy shadows beneath his eyes and the bloodshot rims are certainly drawing attention. But above and beyond his physical appearance is the shift in his work. It’s sloppy, violent, crude, barbaric even by his standards; there is little left intact when all is said and done, and even less recognizable. When Fish Mooney’s body—whatever can still be constituted as a “body”—is discovered, one week later, it makes headlines. Not for the identity of the victim, but the way she has been indescribably mutilated. The media doesn’t even entertain the possibility of a human being the responsible party; the talk around Gotham is a pack of wild animals got to her. Those within the family know the truth, but say nothing. They simply stay quiet, and give Victor as wide a berth as possible. Finally, after years and years of mockery and disrespect, they are finally afraid of him. It’s every man for himself, because no one wants to be next.

It isn’t even the physical assault on the Ogre’s victims that haunts him, that drives the senseless and—he’ll admit it—excessive violence against his own victims. It’s the overlooked detail in each file, the one most investigators probably didn’t notice, may have taken note of and then moved on to other matters: sex. Each victim had been the Ogre's lover, at some point, possibly more than once; there is no definitive answer as to consent. Honestly, whether or not it was consensual doesn’t matter. The detail continues to stick in his mind, like a parasite, like a festering wound without hope of treatment, and his dreams change to include images that, this time, do make him physically sick. Twice.

He stops sleeping altogether, at the start of two weeks, living this way. Sleep doesn’t produce rest, or soothing images. The unconscious brain does nothing but torment with more and more visions, and he won’t have it. Insomnia doesn’t serve him any better—he knows his physical appearance is steadily declining, between the shadowed eyes and a body slowly starving itself—but at least he doesn’t have to sleep and suffer through the cruel realm of nightmares. His outlet becomes his work, in ways it previously wasn’t, and his reputation is gaining infamy. Even officers on Falcone’s payroll are running scared; several members of the family beg the mafia don to do something, anything at all, but Don Falcone holds his silence. And that’s when Victor knows, as Falcone does, he is beyond control. There is no leash that can restrain him and no cage built to confine him. He may be no better than a rabid beast, but at least he’s free.

***

The third week brings news, but not the kind he wanted. It’s not even the kind he’s willing to believe, because it isn’t possible. It isn’t, and he won’t believe it. He won’t.

“You’re wrong.”

It sounds absurd, coming from his mouth—not that it sounded any better in his head, before he actually said anything—but it’s the only thing that makes sense right now. It’s the only coherent statement that comes to mind, as he stands in the corner, attempting to at least appear like an intelligent human being, behind Don Falcone while they both regard Commissioner Loeb. Don Falcone is holding himself together; Victor knows he can’t say the same. His hands are already shaking, barely concealed by the way he has fingers curled tightly within his jacket.

“I wanted to tell you personally, for the sake of our relationship.” Loeb says, speaking strictly to Don Falcone. “I am sorry.”

_Liar._

“And you’re sure about this?” Don Falcone says; his voice is steady, but soft. His composure is slipping; if Victor was looking at him, he would likely see tears threatening at his eyes.

“There was…blood.” Loeb says, with some contrived sense of empathy that boils Victor’s blood like lava, right at the peak, prepared for eruption at any given moment. “It appears this individual had her there for several days. It was a torture room. The blood has been tested; I regret to say it matches Miss DeLaine’s sample—the one we took when she was first hired. And there was…quite a bit of it.”

“But you haven’t found a body.” Don Falcone says, but his tone isn’t hopeful.

“We haven’t found _him_ either.” Loeb points out. “And it’s likely we never will. I hope we do find her body, so she can at least have the dignity of a proper burial.”

“Do you?” Victor says; his voice is tight, each word grating against his vocal chords. Loeb finally graces him with a look, a look of superiority and dismissive regard, and doesn’t even blink when Victor steps forward, arms still crossed and eyes blazing. “Because I’ve heard _you_ , Commissioner, were the one to introduce Jim Gordon to this case.”

Loeb blinks, lips thinning slightly. “Even if I was, and I am certainly not dignifying your accusations with a response on the matter, I am obliged to remind you, Mr. Zsasz, that Detective Gordon is the only responsible party for pursuing the case, and consequently brought Miss DeLaine into such a dangerous situation.”

That may very well be true, he knows, but it’s currently beside the point. He’ll deal with Jim Gordon later. “Don’t play politics with me.” He says, continuing forward. “You made sure he got hold of this case, because you knew he wouldn’t give it up, knowing Iris could be in danger. And now you _dare_ come here and offer your pity?”

“Victor…” Don Falcone’s tone is a warning, but it falls on deaf ears.

“You’re so quick to declare her dead.” He continues, coming even closer. “You don’t even have a body.”

“As I said,” Loeb replies, bristling a bit, looking rather tense at the closing proximity, but he is an arrogant man and holds his ground under some pretense that he’s safe in this place, that no one can touch him because he is protected by Don Falcone, “the likelihood we will ever find her—”

“Don’t talk to me about _likelihoods_.” He snarls. “You’re not even trying.”

“Victor.” The warning is more audible this time, spoken in a louder tone, and he can see Don Falcone shifting forward a bit.

“You, Mr. Zsasz,” Loeb says, holding his gaze, but his eyes are twitching and watering with the effort to not blink, “are out of line. And may I suggest you contain yourself, quickly?”

There’s no real explanation for how, why, or what it is that flips the switch. Frankly, it doesn’t even matter. It takes next to nothing, these days, to set him off, to trigger him, to unleash the beast within. It truly takes very little; his beast doesn’t go away quietly, and it doesn’t even really have a cage anymore. Nothing contains it, just like nothing contains him.

One hand takes hold of the commissioner’s front and violently jerks him forward, while the other hand retrieves his father’s switchblade and presses it firm to the older man’s collar. He’s not even trying to watch the pressure; he could slit this man’s throat without blinking an eye. It would be easy. The commissioner’s vendetta against Gordon is of no interest or concern to him, but he got Iris involved. She had no part in this, and he got her involved.

“Victor!” Don Falcone is out of his chair, but he’s not coming forward. The warning shout means nothing.

“You talk as though you’re not afraid of me, Commissioner.” He whispers, locking eyes with Loeb and pushing a little more on the knife; the skin is old, thin with wrinkles and age, and slicing through it would be like cutting into silk. Smooth and easy. “You should reconsider that. You have _no_ idea who I am.” He pulls him even closer, watching with eager eyes as the pressure on his throat makes him sputter and claw for breath. “But I promise you, when I find Iris, and she’s back where she belongs…I will show you _exactly_ who and what I am. And you will die _screaming_.”


End file.
